Disconcerting Parallels
by pinkbagels
Summary: On their way to Italy, a stopover in London gives Hannibal pause.


DISCONCERTING PARALLELS

Bernard Black was in his usual bad humour. He sat at his desk, surrounded by his usual accoutrements of moldy books, bits of spoiled food and chipped plates, old mugs and a debris of papers that never seemed to make it to accounting nor the empty trash bin at his side. The filthy plates were a likewise fixture that refused to crawl of their own accord to the kitchen sink in the small room directly behind him, and one could just as easily find a crusty fork marking a page in a Charles Dicken's first edition as on the floor, ready to spike a customer nastily in the heel. Bernard stared blankly out into the small group of customers that had wandered into his shop, and not for the first time he wondered if anyone in London ever actually did anything. Surely these people had jobs and families and homes to putter about in? Why were they lurking in his shop and wasting his precious time?

For though it was a shop, it was also Bernard's stubbornly anti-social home and having these people in it was a kind of cruel purgatory he was forced to endure to make a livelihood. Black's Books was his soul, and, the more he miserably mused on it, the more it was clear that these malignant time wasters were only here to chip away at his privacy, with every book sold a tiny bartered measure of his soul.

Ah, but at least there was wine.

He tried to pour himself a glass, only to have a dribbled heel from the bottom of the bottle painfully break free. No wine and a shop full of customers! This put him in a dark mood, indeed.

So, he was forced to continue his study of the outside window where even more people were gathered, rifling through his damp, neglected selection of books. Manny had been cruel enough to wipe the windows clean with vinegar and water thus giving everyone a nice, clean view into Bernard's fetid nest.

Manny was busy whistling and dusting, two of his most irritating habits, and it was he who, naturally, broke Bernard's meditated study of the front of his shop. He waved the cobweb infested feather duster in front of Bernard's face. "What are you staring at?"

Bernard took a sip of his meagre portion of wine, his gaze remaining rigid.

"That woman at the front of the shop. I'm sure I've once had mad, passionate sex with her."

Manny paused in his obsessive dusting and observed the rather rumpled granny sifting through a thick stack of botany and crochet books. After stirring up the dust of one ancient 1972 afghan pattern, she sneezed wetly into her scarf, which was strangely reminiscent of the pattern. Manny had to turn away as she continued to wipe her nose on the rose shaped knots. "I don't mind older women, myself. They can't see very well, and that can be a distinctive advantage."

Bernard blinked at this before finally understanding that Manny was looking in the entirely wrong direction, an affliction he never seemed to cure. "Yes. But while I admit that specific specimen is ideal for the early morning liver and onions set at the tavern down the road..."

"Only two pounds and all the onions you can smother!" Manny exclaimed.

"Yes...But I was not referring to that fetching damsel in stained knee highs with her purse full of stolen gay porn mags-I suppose we should call the nursing home and let them know Mrs. Danvers has escaped again-I was, in fact, referring to the woman standing outside."

"Outside?"

"Yes, Manny, outside. That land beyond the front window. I hear it is a magical place, though I have never been fortunate enough to visit it. I hear there are endless skies and an infinite sense of space, but I trust it's all bullocks. You can't believe everything you read in books."

Manny scratched at his beard as he, too, studied the very attractive blonde woman delicately perusing Bernard's most battered treasures. "You should just say hello."

Bernard reeled as though Manny had struck him. "Madness!"

"People do it all the time. It's a simple, every day pleasantry."

"People! Pleasantry! How dare you use those foul words in this house!"

Manny let out an exasperated sigh. "There is nothing wrong with a bit of human interaction."

Bernard's left eye twitched and he clutched his near empty glass close to his bosom. "Just when was it you became this monster with a feather duster?"

Manny glanced at the woman outside and then back at Bernard, frustrated at the impasse his impossible employer had shoved him into. "But..."

"Don't make me point at the sign!"

"But..."

Bernard's furious finger pointed at the chalkboard near the entrance of the shop. Under the 'List of Rules' was scrawled a single word, one that Manny understood well. He hung his head and stomped off into the back of the shop. "I'm making tea."

"Yes, yes, make TEA you pleasant, people person parasite! Pekoe! Pekoe!"

* * *

The paperbacks were moldy and neglected, a feeling Bedelia longed for. No moment passed without careful calculation, her movements and thoughts both slow and deliberate. Scrutiny was her constant assailant. Hannibal was somewhere in the vicinity and though their stopover in London was to be short lived before they proceeded on to Italy, she had the vain hope she could escape his watchful eye for a few short moments. It felt important to pretend that there were stolen seconds where he couldn't find her and she was truly alone.

She had to be vigilant in both movements and appearance, never betraying the terror and desire lurking as battling lovers within her breast. She place long, well manicured nails along the spines of the worn, damp books, the paper disintegrating beneath her touch. She made a move as though to go in, and then, suddenly changed her tactic and swivelled her heel to wander into the bookstore next door to the...bookstore. Odd. Why would two bookstores seemingly unrelated to each other create this open rivalry? Much as the decrepit one had character, this newer incarnation had the pleasant aroma of freshly baked muffins wafting out of its open door. It drew Bedelia in like a warm lover, a delicious, decadent treat she would otherwise have never afforded herself. One had to keep one's figure trim.

She barely noticed the long shadow that nearly overcame her as she entered the store, the door closing fast behind her, cutting off its dark head.

* * *

Hannibal understood Bedelia's game better than she did herself, and he was amused by her careful facades, the words chosen with fastidious, hand picked accuracy, her movements slow and deliberate like a visitor in a hungry lion's cage. It was painfully predictable, and yet there was a comfort in this. He had no worries Bedilia. Whatever it was she was seeking to become was hovering solely at the periphery of his influence. He did not know her real purpose in accompanying him to Italy and could only guess it had to do with her self destructive eroticism.

She was no Will Graham, not even close, but her company was pleasant and cultured and she held his interest just enough to prevent true boredom from seeping in. His days in hiding could be broken up by the interesting twists and turns of her own particular game.

He watched her as she perused a glut of battered books, only to abandon them for more sanitized pursuits. How very metaphoric. He smiled, cradling his bottle of Argentinean malbec as he waited for her to be fully inside of the bookstore before following her through the attached entrance.

Only, it wasn't attached. *This* bookstore was a different one from *that* bookstore, and it took a while for him to realize that yes, indeed, these were very different places. What strange animosity had created this scenario, he wondered. Books that were constantly at war with one another.

The store certainly looked it, with its wooden, splintery shelves and reams of dusty tomes that tickled the back of his throat, the taste left on his tongue like dried algae. He was the only person in the store and, as this was highly uncomfortable for a man who needed to be anonymous and needed crowds for that purpose, he turned on his heel and made his way to leave.

"You there. Stop."

Hannibal paused, his hand on the doorknob. It slid to fall to his side as he put on his 'person suit' as Bedelia called it, and with as bland a face as he could muster he turned towards the origin of the voice with a pleasing, trusting smile. "Yes?"

"You don't need to visit that smug bastard next door, his days are numbered. Manny's back and he knows he's the loser." The thick Irish accent was muted beneath the haze of smoke from his cigarette, the tousled hair and tortured expression strangely reminiscent of someone Hannibal knew. "I got your book. Whatever it is, I got it. It will be dirty and smelly and full of underlines in red and blue pens, the occasional paragraph blocked off in day-glo pink. Its index will be rife with phone numbers long since out of order, and hearts with the names of boyfriends who ended up being unemployed prats." He tossed a stack of books onto his desk, cigarette dangling dangerously at the corner of his mouth, ready to fall and set them alight at any moment. A clump of dust dispersed into the air at the heady thump as they landed on his desk. His timid assistant coughed, waving the air with a rather dirty feather duster. 'How odd', Hannibal thought. 'The man is wearing a Hawaiian shirt and it's the middle of December.'

He had never liked London. It was an unpredictable place that mimicked order but was rife with chaos. It always made him feel as though he was losing his balance, even when he walked its ancient, modern streets.

"I'm bringing you history," the bookseller said around his cigarette, ashes falling onto his desk, the books, his food, his drink. Hannibal glanced to his right and frowned when he saw a chalkboard touting a 'List Of Rules'. There was only one word scrawled on it. DON'T.

Thinking it was best to play along, Hannibal put on his manners and entered the shop further, the malbec now held by the neck as he pondered the books surrounding him, a vast mixture that didn't seem to have any real organization. It would be painfully simple to snuff out both the owner of the shop and his dimwitted, overly cheerful assistant, but it would also be imprudent. The incessant whistling of the assistant and his overly cheerful dusting were both definitely irritating, but killing him was an indulgence he couldn't quite afford at present. Best to wait until Italy.

"I am journeying to Italy in less than a fortnight," Hannibal said. He gestured to the shelves with the heel of his bottle of wine. "I was wondering if you had any Italo Calvino. 'If On A Winter's Night A Traveller' will suffice."

"Bloody bullocking twatwaffle," the bookseller muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"There is a story. There isn't a story. It blends into nothingness like existential diarrhea. A hamster with ADD and a typewriter and he still can't reach half the keys. Bloody awful. Bloody, miserable awful. And you, going to Italy, and wanting to take that shyte that Timothy Leary would find overdone? Why? I suppose you're too good for the true classics. Dante and his infernal Inferno. The Triumphs of Petrarch to warble out of tune while you stuff your face with overpriced, tourist pizza. I can't believe you have the nerve, waltzing in here, asking for that vomit inducing, self indulgent buttswipe!"

For once in his life, Hannibal was speechless. Keeping his composure in the face of attack had always been an easy feat for him, but this tousle headed serf glared up at him in a fierce contempt that had absolutely no pride attached. There was certainly no pride in his surroundings, nor his appearance, and if the bits of toast that lay in scattered remnants around him were any indication, not exactly one for the culinary delights, either. This was not a man to be devoured, not with the poison he had subjected his life to and revelled in. He was, Hannibal realized, genuinely offended *on principle*.

"Well, then, since you have made your opinion plain, do you have a copy of Dante's Inferno?"

A paperback with curled corners was tossed in Hannibal's direction. Along with a copy of Italo Calvino's 'Invisible Cities'.

"That one is quite good, actually."

Hannibal gave the bookseller a long, uncomfortable study.

"You don't have a copy of 'If On A Winter's Night A Traveller', do you?"

"No. That will be four pounds."

Ever the stoic, but definitely annoyed, Hannibal placed his malbec onto the desk and then pulled out his wallet to peruse the contents within. "I am afraid I only have American currency at present. Will ten dollars suffice?"

The bookseller quickly reached out and took the malbec, uncorked it and filled his glass before Hannibal could even refold his wallet. The overly cheerful assistant handed him a bag and chirped, "Thank you for shopping at Black's Books!"

"What are you doing?" Hannibal asked, genuinely confused. "That is my wine!"

The bookseller shrugged as he began gulping at the unhealthy amount he had poured for himself. Hannibal pulled out a ten dollar bill and waved it in the already inebriated man's face. "I have money!"

"Books, money, wine, books. No difference."

It took every ounce of his being not to pick up any wayward splinter and stab the miscreant in the neck with it. The only thing stopping him was the realization that if he wasn't in a hurry and could appreciate this moment properly, he'd find it terribly entertaining. He checked his watch. Bedelia was taking far too long, he would have to pursue her. "That wine is worth far more than a mere four pounds."

"It tastes like two. Manny, throw him a Petrarch."

A moldy paperback was hurled through the air and Hannibal neatly caught it before it hit him square in the face. A feeling of impatience overwhelmed him. What to do with this unexpected and undeserved insolence? Pride was not involved, clearly. What was there was the audacious misery against humanity, the dishevelled wreck before him stubbornly anti-social and happy within his little abnormal universe.

It was then that it hit him, a stab in his gut that left a germinating fear within Hannibal's soul. 'Should Will Graham ever decide to become a hedonist, this is the kind he would be. Isolated, mean and more than a tad delusional.'

The door to the shop opened and he knew her before she even spoke. Bedelia, with her careful steps, making sure her expensive heels didn't inadvertently step in something unpleasant. Her gaze on Hannibal was unwavering, and though she tried to be unreadable there was no mistaking the slight quiver of shock that marred her perfect, calculated calm. "You're very pale. Are you well?"

"Not really," Hannibal admitted.

He bagged the Petrarch, for there was nothing left to say. His wine was already half gone and the cheery "Have a nice night!" that followed them as they left was like a well timed punch. He would have liked to have made a stew of the obstinate bookseller, but he knew it would only be bitter and vile, nothing at all to redeem the palate. It was perhaps how Will would taste, even now. How very disappointing.

Bedelia's heels were clipped as they left. "I made the mistake of getting a muffin next door," she said. "It's the strangest thing, I swear it had a bite out of it."

"The sooner we get out of London the better," Hannibal said, but offered no further explanation. How he hated this city and its habit of uncomfortable revelations!

* * *

Fran entered the store shortly after the last two customers had left. She was in a flurry of anger as she collapsed on a broken chair near the desk. "What a waste of time!"

"Speed dating didn't go well?" Manny asked.

Fran rolled her eyes as she snatched up the bottle on Bernard's desk and to his chagrin emptied it into her own glass. "The usual. Gay. Gay. Gay. Serial killer. Gay. Gay serial killer. " She paused over the bottle of wine, instantly recognizing this wasn't Bernard's usual plonk. "This is lovely. I take it you had another one who didn't have proper currency?"

Bernard shrugged over his overfilled glass.

"Some Lithuanian wanker."

~end~


End file.
